


can the child within my heart rise above?

by kermiethefrog



Series: landslide will bring it down [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Bottom Sam Winchester, Daddy Kink, Dark, Eating Disorders, Feminization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slut Shaming, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 20:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermiethefrog/pseuds/kermiethefrog
Summary: Big brother praises. They taste a little like alcohol where Dean presses them into his lips. He can’t see it with the way Dean leans over him, lapping into him like a desert-stranded man, but he can feel the way his brother’s fingers meet at his navel and his lower back.There’s always more he can lose, and Sam watches it all slip with every ounce of fat that washes away.





	can the child within my heart rise above?

**Author's Note:**

> If ED is one of your triggers, you might wanna turn back. He’s not quite in tune with his dysmorphia and that comes out in insidious ways. This fic is dark, dark dark dark.
> 
> Sam is thirteen at the beginning. It goes through until he’s sixteen. This is the first part of a hurt/comfort series - the comfort side is in Dean’s pov and overlaps with Sam’s experiences.
> 
> Written for the [OhSam Hurt/Comfort Birthday Meme](https://ohsam.livejournal.com/938481.html). Prompt was "Sam has an eating disorder".

_July 1996_

 

“You’re so pretty, Sammy,” Dean says. He licks into Sam’s newly-teenage mouth, and Sam huffs out soft pants in response.

 

He spreads back against the mattress. Dad’s gone which means Dean’s focus is pinpointed in a searing heat-ray prick over Sam’s heart, and it burns Sam up so hot he feels like he’s dying.

 

Dean’s hands wrap around his waist. “Fuck, you’re so tiny.” Big brother praises. They taste a little like alcohol where Dean presses them into his lips. He can’t see it with the way Dean leans over him, lapping into him like a desert-stranded man, but he can feel the way his brother’s fingers meet at his navel and his lower back. “I bet I could see my dick inside you. Right here, give you a little baby bump.”

 

A palm against the flatness of his stomach, where it concaves in from the notches of his ribcage. They’ve been eating funyuns and Gatorade for the past two days, and Sam’s body craves being filled.

 

“You want my dick inside you, Sammy?”

 

Sam lets out a soft-lilted, barely-there moan and nods.

\---

 

_October 1996_

 

Devin shows Sam pictures of the guys she talks to on the internet after class. They sit on her rug, knees pressing, and they giggle over the lewd messages she gets, pink-cheeked princesses with boy-hungry thighs.

 

“Are you ever gonna meet up with any of ‘em?” Sam asks. Devin braids his hair and he tells her not to tie them off, because he’ll have to shake them out before Dad sees, anyway. 

 

She wrinkles her nose. “No way. They all wanna have sex and I’m not a slut.” Phrases that they only know through teen drama flicks and the rich bitch squad of seniors that fawn over Dean at their combination middle-high school cafeteria.

 

Sam laughs even if he doesn’t feel like it. He’s a slut for his brother’s everything, but attention most of all — he would willingly spread his legs just to feel the smother safety of Dean’s tight hold. 

 

When he goes back to the motel, Dad’s passed out in the next room. Dean closes the bedroom door and fucks Sam on the couch with a hand tight over Sam’s babygirl cherry gloss lips. Sam watches Scooby and the Gang solve a case with his big brother fucking bruises into his thighs.

 

“So tight, baby,” Dean says into his ear. His breath smells sour like beer and drags sweat down the dip of his throat. “Pussy so tight for me.”

 

Sam moans into Dean’s palm and huffs air through his nose, eyes rolling back when Dean fuck-punches deep. Hand presses against his stomach, and his big brother holds him there. Sam knows what he’s searching for.

 

“You always gonna be this small for me, Sammy?” Dean asks, and Sam nods.

 

His reward is a fucking so good he can’t stop crying.

\---

 

_March 1997_

 

“Stow your crap, Samuel,” Dad thunders. He’s a Biblical storm for all the faithless man he is, and Sam hates him. “You need to fucking quit it with this goddamn attitude —”

 

Sam screams. He shoves Dad and gets bruise-littering grips on his upper arms. Dad shakes him and Sam can feel every drip-drop darkness in his soul rattling in his ribcage. “Let go, let go, let go!”

 

Dean steps in between them. He grips the front Dad’s shirt and eases him back; Dad's chest gets a fist. Sam's gets Dean’s warm, open palm. 

 

Sam’s tongue wants to tell Dad that Dean’s warm, open palm left pretty bruises over his ass last week. He wants to tell Dad that he’s been ruining Dean for nearly a year already — he wants to tell Dad that he feels best with his big brother groaning praises into his mouth.

 

He doesn’t. He flutters his eyes shut when Dad slams the front door and lets Dean kiss his anger away. 

 

“You can’t keep fighting Dad like this, Sammy,” Dean says. Dean’s breath is hot against his throat, and Sam sighs airy and breathless. “You’re not a little kid anymore, y’know? You gotta grow up.”

 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t, not when Dad walks in six hours later and drags Sam onto his lap and apologizes into his hair. He can be kid-small forever as long as it means Dad will ease any anger away in the face of his youngest boy, and Sam buries his face in leather-bound comfort. 

 

“I know it’s not easy, Sammy,” Dad says quietly. Dad’s voice only gets this soft in late night moonlight, spoken into the top of his head. “But you know I love you boys, right?”

 

Sam nods. He’s built the foundation of his life on this fact — he curls into Dad’s chest and is kept safe where he slots in, his father’s hand-carved heart with just enough room for his smallest son. 

\---

 

_August 1997_

 

The summer after he turns fourteen, Sam grows three inches.

Dean stops fucking him and starts fucking college-aged girls in the towns they go to, and Sam doesn’t know where he’s gone wrong. 

\---

 

_December 1997_

 

They make vulgar sounds, dirty little high-pitched moans that grate on Sam’s ears. He imagines them all being held down by Dean’s large hands as his brother stabs into them. Alternating twists — knife, cock, knife, cock.

 

 _That’s mine,_ Sam thinks. He shreds torn-up pieces of the cheeseburger Dean got him in the garbage disposal. He had half a large fry and most of a Diet Coke, and he’s not hungry, anyway. The rocking of the bedframe in the next room makes his guts recoil. 

 

Sam presses a hand flat against his stomach like Dean used to. It’s growing. It’s growing, and it’s not Dean’s dick that fills him up.

 

He jerks off hard and painful to the sound of Dean coming with his ear pressed against the wall. Sam wants to be stabbed, over and over. He wants Dean to bury it right into his throat.

 

Dean never says their names. That makes it easier.

\---

 

_February 1998_

 

“I’ll just have a side salad.”

 

Dean and Dad give him twin looks. Dean’s the one who speaks up.

 

“You watching your figure for your boyfriend, Samantha?” he asks, and Dad snorts as he flicks through the jukebox choices.

 

Sam’s mouth waters. His chest is a carved-out and hollow place, and yet it still broadens. Three months away from his fifteenth birthday, and he wants to die.

 

He wants to be baby brother fuckable. He wants to be small enough to be taken care of between two broad palms. He wants so much of what he used to have when he was two years younger and twenty pounds lighter.

 

“I don’t want to die from a heart attack at forty, Dean,” Sam shoots back.

 

Dean gives him a look that says they aren’t gonna make it that long anyway. Dean used to look at him like he couldn’t wait to be alone so he could coax Sam into touching his cock.

 

“Let him eat what he wants,” Dad finally cuts in. “He’ll eat something substantial once it gets his ass under heat during a hunt.”

\---

 

_May 1991_

 

Daddy smooths Band-Aids over his twin skinned knees — Oscar the Ground perches from his trash can on one, and Grover smiles happily on the other. When he knocks them together, it looks like Grover’s come to say _good morning_.

 

He blinks soft tears into Daddy’s shirt where his cheek is rested. When Daddy and Dean get hurt, they get gauze and medical tape and bandage-wrapped like mummies — they ignore scrapes and scratches like they don’t even hurt. Sam wonders if he’s gonna be the same way when he grows up, if he’s not gonna need Daddy’s warm hand washing over his back to keep the prickle-pain at bay. 

 

“Almost gettin’ too big to keep sitting on my lap, kiddo,” Daddy jokes. It makes Sam’s tummy get all knotted up; it’s safe, here. He’s been sitting on laps his whole life and he doesn’t want to lose the sensation of a broad chest against his side keeping him warm. Sam buries his face into Daddy’s throat and gets rewarded with fingers petting the baby-fine hairs at the nape of his neck. “But not yet, huh, Sammy? Still my little boy.”

 

Sam nods. Daddy turns on _MacGyver_ and Sam curls himself into something small enough to fit in Daddy’s palm.

\---

 

_May 1998_

 

“Have you ever had sex?”

 

She paints a coat of baby girl pink over his pinky finger. Sam looks away from the tv — Harv smiles at Sabrina like she was carved out of stardust and Sam wants someone to look at him like that — and down at Amanda. She’s willow-thin and lets him wear her sweaters. They count out popcorn kernels together and she keeps him honest in how many he puts into his mouth.

 

“Yeah,” he answers. He thinks about big brother dick and his mouth waters. 

 

“Did it hurt?” She blows gently over his nail before he can raise it up to look. He’s going to leave in two weeks once Dad comes back from the job, and Sam’s going to miss her. “I heard it hurts more when you’re tiny.”

 

Sam laughs. “No,” and bitterness swallows him whole, “it feels way better when you’re smaller.”

\---

 

_November 1998_

 

He’s been hungrier before. Sam presses his palms over his navel and smothers the grating against his guts. “Shut up,” he whispers to the want that claws in his stomach, “shut up.”

 

He pinches the roll of fat underneath his belly button. Sam closes his eyes and tries to imagine the way Dean’s dick looked like through the thick of all of it; he can’t. He hasn’t been able to for a long time.

 

“Sammy? I made you a sandwich. Peanut butter and banana — your favorite,” Dean calls through the bathroom door. 

 

The thought makes his guts recoil. “I’m not hungry,” he calls back.

 

Dean knocks on the door, and Sam’s mouth waters. “Hey, can you unlock the door?” he asks. Gentle, so gentle that it makes Sam’s chest concave inwards.

 

He lifts an arm — a heavy weight, an exertion just to move it, and he’s just had another growth spurt that’s left him aching and angry — and clicks the lock to the side. Dean enters, and Sam presses his cheek against his perched knee.

 

“Sammy, I’m —” Dean starts. He kneels next to the toilet, and he doesn’t even have his palm pressed flat before Sam leans into it. Eyes flutter shut. Dean’s attention has always been right on the verge of overwhelming. “I’m really worried about you, kiddo. Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” Sam says immediately. He’s fine. He’s fine. If he wasn’t, he would have to deal with it on his own — there is no warm weight comfort for him, not anymore, not until he’s small again. Small enough to be enveloped in the palm of one man’s hand.

 

Dean looks unconvinced. Worry pinches his brow and leaves little creases in his forehead, fanning away from the corners of his eyes. Sam’s fingers can’t help but run over them delicately, just to try to smooth them out. 

 

His heart yearns, a birdshy flutter that leaves him light-headed and tight-chested. “I’m okay, I promise, Dean.” Insistent like it can’t come out of his lungs any other way. His hand falls onto Dean’s forearm. He’s a sunshine warmth that Sam craves more than anything else he could ever hope to taste on his tongue. 

 

He attempts a smile. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts — he feels like an attention-starved boy, limbs too long and chest too large for the smallness of his soul. Dean looks at him like he’s worth looking at, and Sam wants to remove his eyes. 

 

Dean tips into overwhelming and Sam can’t swallow him down anymore.

 

“Okay,” Dean says. 

 

Sam shakes with the fear of how much he wants to kiss his brother.

\---

 

_January 1999_

 

She laughs into Dean’s shoulder, and Sam’s fingernails dig crescent-moon bruises into his thighs.

 

He stares down at the turkey club on his plate. He feels like throwing up. He feels like shattering his plate and stabbing Dean’s date in the throat with it.

 

Her younger brother shifts at his side. He has an _N_ name — Nate or Nick or something that Sam’s never going to remember — and keeps looking at him from the corner of his eyes. If Sam wasn’t sitting on the inside of the booth, he would have excused himself to the bathroom to slit his fucking wrists.

 

“Not hungry, Sammy?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

 _Fuck you_ , Sam thinks. _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._ It’s equal parts frustration and anger and betrayal; he feels stupid to have expected anything different. Dean had asked if he wanted to hang out and see a movie, and Sam had thought —

 

“I ate before I got here,” Sam bites back, sliding his attention out the window. Dean knows he didn’t, but Dean only brought him along so Sam could amuse his dumb bitch of a girlfriend’s younger brother. 

 

“We should’ve shared a plate, Sammy,” she says, “I’m trying to watch my figure, y’know? Gotta cut back on the calories.”

 

Sam wants to tell her that she should keep her fat ass away from his big brother. “It’s _Sam_ ,” he says instead.

 

The guy — Neil, maybe — rolls his eyes at his sister. “Yeah, like your fat ass can lose anything,” he scoffs, and a giggle bursts from Sam’s chest like it’s being set free, a high-pitched babygirl of a laugh. 

 

Neil gives him a closeted-quarterback smile, slow around the edges like he’s proud of himself. He’s plain-looking and slack-jawed, but Sam’s mouth waters for dick, anyway; if he asks, Sam will drop to his knees in the boy’s bathroom during the movie.

 

“If you weren’t gonna eat anything, you shouldn’t’ve ordered anything,” Dean shoots out. Visceral and sharp and unnecessarily cruel. “Wasting my fucking money.”

 

Sam bites back irritation with the click of his teeth. He swallows it down and lets it feed the always draining ache that twists ugly in his guts. He’s never hated his brother before, but he does now.

\---

 

_July 1999_

 

Sam licks up the length of one side of the popsicle and then the other. He swallows it down, letting it rest and melt away on his tongue; his wrists taste like sugar sweat in the sweltering July heat.

 

There’s a man in the parking lot that’s been watching him for a few minutes instead of leaving. Sam runs a finger along the edge of his cuffed shorts. It’s easier getting away with showing off more thigh if he rolls them up — Dad would never let him own anything cut-off so high.

 

The man stares. Sam hollows out his cheeks and runs his fingers up his inseam to where his thigh gap proudly shows. 

 

There’s always more to lose, he thinks. He doesn’t want to pinch his side but he does anyway, compulsed. Fingers stutter and he bites down on the popsicle and finishes it off with the crunch of his teeth. It’s just sugar water. 

 

Sam turns to throw away the stick and the man exits his car.

 

“Hey,” he says.

 

Sam smiles, cherry-painted lips and bunny teeth pushing into the plush of his lower peak. “Hiya,” he says back.

 

The man looks at Sam like he’s carved out of stardust.

 

His name is Trevor. He’s a _concerned citizen who saw that Sam was all alone and wanted to know if he needed a ride home._ He’s married, and Sam’s fingers twirl his silver wedding band, large palm against his small one. He’s tall and broad. Sam wonders how big his dick is.

 

Sam says, “My dad’s on a business trip right now, so if I go home, I’ll be all alone there, anyway.” Licks his lips and flutters his eyes up at Trevor. Traces his fingers over Trevor’s palm. 

 

“I could keep you company,” Trevor offers, breathless like Sam’s choking him. 

 

Nearly everything in Sam screams _bad idea_. He’s not an idiot, and he knows better than this — monsters can look like Good Samaritans with a thirst for babyboy cock, too. But the part that doesn’t says _take care of me_ instead, crying out in the lonely part of Sam’s soul, and that’s the part that wins out.

 

“Can you?” Sam sings sweetly, and he presses Trevor’s hand to the middle of his stomach and smiles.

 

Trevor fucks him like he means it, like this is the only time he’s going to get a handful of jailbait ass and he needs to make it count. Sam goes from cooing little encouragements and soft-eyed sweetness to gripping strong forearms and moaning like it’s being punched out of him. Trevor doesn’t fill him up like big brother dick does, but it’s the closest thing he’s had to it.

 

Sam comes first, spilling in his panties where he grinds into Trevor’s thigh as the man sucks at his nipples. He arches his back and wraps his arms around Trevor’s neck and shakes, and Trevor presses the heel of his palm against his twitching cock.

 

Sam comes a second time with thirty-something-year-old cock buried deep inside of him. Trevor fucks it out of him and Sam whites out for a second, blood rush so sharp and quick that he gets dizzy. 

 

“Fuck my pussy,” Sam babbles. He’s not aware it comes from him until he hears Trevor groan. He squirms his hips. “Fuck my little boy pussy, Daddy, make me feel good again, tell me how tight I am for you —”

 

“Fuck,” Trevor says, and his fingers wrap around Sam’s throat. Sam whines. “Fuck, Sam.”

 

Sam blacks out with the slowing tick of bloodchoke pulsing out weakly in his throat, and when he wakes up, his insides slosh full with cum and Trevor’s gone.

 

He walks the mile back to the motel. Dean takes one look at the bruises lining his throat and the stick-adhesive of his shorts to the inside of his thighs and his kiss-swollen lips, and narrows his eyes.

 

“Take a shower,” Dean says, disgusted, and Sam feels sick to his stomach, triggerquick tears blooming at the corners of his eyes, “you smell like a fucking whore.”

 

Sam can barely stand in the shower, so he sits in the tub and cries. Dean wakes him up with the rough shake of his shoulders and water running down his chest; it scares Sam that he’s not sure when he fell asleep. He’s too weak to get up on his own.

 

He feels like he’s wilting away, sometimes. Fading into something brittle enough to break. _Waifish_. Word used by dark-eyed girls half his size to get him to stick around because he knows he makes them look smaller.

 

Dean wraps him up in a towel and carries him onto the bed like a princess. Like a baby girl bride. “You need to eat something,” he grumbles. Sam rolls onto his side and stares at his pillow. “You’re wasting away, Sam. It’s not healthy.”

 

Sam pinches the roll of fat at his side. There’s always more to lose. He wishes he could rip the bones from his body until he’s nothing at all. Faint and exhausted, his heartbeat thudding loud against his rattling ribcage, his lungs dragging in each breath like it hurts — he doesn’t know when it became an effort to do anything. Somewhere between a-hundred-and-ten and double digits, maybe. He closes his eyes, and even crying is an effort that makes his guts churn, running on empty and crawling painfully for three years.

 

“How come you don’t fuck me anymore?” he asks. A whisper. Dean’s hand in his hair is the gentlest touch he’s felt all year.

 

“You need to eat, Sammy,” Dean answers instead. Sam’s mouth waters. “You’re sick.”

 

Dad used to smile at him; Dad used to look at him like he needed to keep his bird-boned baby boy safe. There are friends Sam left behind that used to send him letters, delivered in little rubber band bundles by Uncle Bobby — they don’t, anymore, not to a forgotten invisible boy, a wayfaring wanderer. Sam remembers the feeling of Dean’s hands on his skin, the Harv-starry look in his eyes when Sam was spread out on the mattress. There was a time where Sam felt safe and loved and wanted. 

 

Gone. It’s all gone now.

 

There’s always something else he can lose.


End file.
